February 4th, 2004
|12:56 pm - John De Bello would be proud|
This afternoon agaysexicon posted that he had to deal with (gasp!) munchkins at McDonalds, and I was going to leave the story of my ketchup collection as a comment to his livejournal. Once I got it typed it out though, I realized that it's longer than his entire post, so here it is as an entry in my journal. Enjoy.
. . .
I remember those horrific post-field trip stops at McDonalds... That's how my ketchup collection started. Have I ever told you about my ketchup collection? No? I used to have a ketchup collection. It started on the way home from my sixth-grade trip to Wyalusing State Park. We stopped at McDonalds where they'd prepared a lunch of one (1) double cheeseburger, one (1) large order of French fries, and one (1) medium Coke for each student.
My friend Chad and I collected our lunches and found a place to sit. Chad reached into his bag, emptied out its contents, and rifled through them. His face fell. He muttered the word "crap," stood up, and went up to the counter. The rest of us at the table looked at each other, shrugged, and commenced eating.
A moment later, a woman in a McDonalds uniform and holding a paper bag came to our table.
"You boys need ketchup?"
"Sure," I said. She reached into the bag, pulled out a handful of ketchup packets, tossed them at me, and moved on to the next table just as Chad was returning.
"Brethren!" he called excitedly (this was back in the early '90s when people said "brethren" instead of "dude"), "I got enough ketchup for everybody!"
Sheepishly, I thrust my unopened ketchup packets into the pocket of my coat, where I discovered them a couple of weeks later. I put them into a drawer in my desk and forgot about them until my sister pointed them out months later.
"Oh," I said, "that's my ketchup collection."
For at least two years, she diligently brought new additions to the collection, and I'd absent-mindedly toss them into the drawer. Then one day I was organizing my desk and discovered that they'd been leaking. For some time. It wasn't pleasant.
The moral to the story (since I guess there should be one) is that if you’re going to collect ketchup, collect the bottles, not the single-serving packets. No, better yet, the moral is that if you're going to collect something, you should stick to the conventional collectibles, like stamps or dead bugs or t-shirts bearing the likeness of Alfred E. Neuman. Stay away from ketchup.
Current Mood: nostalgic
Current Music: Bruce Dickinson -- Scream For Me Brazil
Wow. Wow. Like, wow.
Hard to believe '92 was 12 years ago, 112 years ago and 212 years ago. I don't know if they had the concept of 1692 as '92 back in 1692. And they had it again 612 years ago, you know, back in '92.
Holy shit, you're right... where does the time go?
Depends on whether you're talking AM or PM. See, AM all goes to Portland, Oregon where it is finely ground, and filtered for impurities. Then it's shipped off to Greenwich, England, where it's combined with new time in a 50/50 blend and recycled as mornings. These recycled mornings, incidentally, are of considerably lower quality than PM time which is made fresh daily in Dubuque. That's why so many mornings are so lousy.
PM on the other hand goes to Detroit where it's separated by minutes, and then further filtered into four categories, which are referred to in the industry as afternoon, evening, primetime and late nite. These are uh... They take 'em to Scranton where... a guy named... No, let me go back. The ship them off to different places. Afternoon goes to Southern California, Evening to Japan, Primetime is ah, used by some of the larger cities in the Midwest, and Late Nite goes to New York where it's divvied up between Conan O'Brien, David Letterman, Jay Leno and-- um, they use it for... I think it's a...
Ah, screw it. And I was off to such a good start.
So what do you think of that Bruce Dickinson Cd?
It's rockin' like Dokken, except it's not Dokken.
Come to think of it, I don't even like the couple of Dokken songs I can think of, so forget I brought them up. It's just rockin'. Period.